


A Tawdry Little Crime

by Pargoletta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Brothers, Carl Powers - Freeform, Dental Trauma, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Swimming Pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen-year-old Sherlock discovers that the wrong combination of Mummy, mind-altering substances and murder can ruin the half-term holidays completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning Shows The Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Arthur Conan Doyle, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Note: Welcome to this story! This one kind of rose up suddenly in my mind and demanded to be written. The demand was well-timed, so I gave in.
> 
> The death in this story is a canon event, but the circumstances under which Sherlock first hears about it are inspired by real-life events. This story is set during the early months of 1989. Sherlock has recently turned thirteen, an unpleasant age for a lot of kids, and probably especially so for a kid like Sherlock.
> 
> Enjoy the story, and I’ll see you at the end.

**1\. Morning Shows The Day**

* * *

The world was cool and blue and silent. Sherlock floated aimlessly in the water, not weightless, not exactly, but supported evenly all over his body. In the water, he could move gracefully, any way he wanted to go. All the ungainliness of long limbs and oversized feet and hands that puberty was inflicting upon his thirteen-year-old body melted away in the water, and Sherlock could think, free of distraction for a few precious moments. In the water, he could shut out the chattering voices of people endlessly wanting things from him and contemplate his changing circumstances in peace.

Unfortunately, that peace was always short-lived. No matter how good Sherlock got at holding his breath, he would always have to surface sooner or later. His chest began to tighten, and his feet kicked even before he could think, propelling him upward. As soon as his head broke the surface of the water, his ears were assaulted by shouts and splashes echoing in the cavernous, tiled pool area, and bodies shoved past him as he bobbed in the water trying to re-orientate himself.

“Everyone out!” the lifeguard was shouting. “Free swimming period is over for today! Everyone out of the pool!”

Sherlock breaststroked to the side of the pool nearest his blue-curtained cubicle and hauled himself out. Warm as it was, the air still felt chilly on his wet skin, and he hurried to wrap himself in his towel. When he glanced at the large clock on the wall, he noticed that it was a full hour earlier than it usually was when the free swimming period ended. He wriggled into flip-flops and padded over to the lifeguard.

“The free swimming period is meant to end at noon. It’s just eleven now. Why can’t we swim any more?” he asked.

“Swimming tournament,” the lifeguard replied absently. “Whole lot of school teams coming in for a championship today. We have to get the pool ready for them.” And, indeed, some of the other boys who worked at the pool had opened the doors to the equipment room and were bringing out the lane markers.

Sherlock sighed and flip-flopped back to the locker room to shower and change back into his clothes. He took as long as he could about it, but he still emerged from the locker room with forty minutes left before Mummy was scheduled to come and pick him up. It was enough time that Sherlock could easily have taken the Tube home, but the lesson had been driven home in recent years that arriving at home unexpectedly sometimes led to seeing things he shouldn’t have seen and the decidedly unpleasant consequences of that.

There was always the option of simply sitting in the entry hall and waiting until the arranged time, allowing the activity of the building to flow around him as he indulged in a long flight of the mind. But no sooner had Sherlock seated himself on a bench than he caught sight of Mr. Burton, who taught the little children’s swim lessons. Mr. Burton glanced at Sherlock speculatively, hunching over and fiddling with something in his coat pocket in a way that made Sherlock uncomfortable. He slid off the bench and went to the manager’s office.

“What do you want?” the manager asked, not unkindly.

“May I use your telephone?” Sherlock asked. “I need to ask my mother to come and fetch me.”

The manager slid the telephone across the desk, and Sherlock dialled the number. Mummy answered after four rings, and her greeting sounded oddly forced.

“Oh, it’s you, darling. Aren’t you still swimming?”

Sherlock sighed. “Obviously not. They’ve closed the pool early. Come and fetch me.”

“Right now? I’m in the middle of a meeting with my solicitor.”

“But you’re home. Solicitors have meetings in their offices . . .” Sherlock’s mind skipped him directly to the end of that chain of logic, and he decided that he definitely did not like what he saw there, and closed his mouth.

Now it was Mummy’s turn to sigh down the telephone line at him. “All right. Give me a few minutes to make myself presentable, and I’ll come and fetch you. Wait in the entry hall like a good boy.”

“Thank you, Mummy.” Sherlock hung up and returned to the entry hall. Mr. Burton had left, so it was probably safe to sit there for fifteen minutes or so. Sherlock sat down, took a deep breath, and blew it out, sinking deep into the recesses of his mind. 

Usually, this was a perfect refuge, clean and orderly, a mental landscape marked off into sections. The smallest section was marked “Known,” and it was a fine starting point, though Sherlock never cared to remain there for very long. Far more interesting was the larger stretch marked “Unknown” that spread out into the far distance, a wild territory just begging to be conquered. Off to one side was a third territory, somewhat whimsically designated “Here There Be Dragons,” in a Gothic typeface that Sherlock suspected he had taken from one of his old storybooks. This region was full of dark, uncomfortable things that Sherlock did not want to know about. He didn’t know quite how big that region was, or when he might find himself drifting along its edges, but he could always recognize the cold, prickly feeling that rolled around him when he encountered it.

The most interesting place to be was just on the border between “Known” and “Unknown,” but it was hard to locate that place today. Wherever Sherlock turned, he encountered the unnerving edges of “Here There Be Dragons,” and he would have to take a step back. After the fifth or sixth time that this happened, he retreated back to “Known” in despair and discovered that someone was waiting for him there. 

The figure turned out to be Samuel Johnson, which did not surprise Sherlock in the slightest. Mycroft had given him Boswell’s _Life of Samuel Johnson_ as a combined Christmas and birthday gift that year, and Sherlock had spent much of the intervening time devouring the book. Johnson-in-his-mind smiled kindly at him and intoned, “Depend upon it, Sherlock, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the industrial-green wall opposite him, with its corkboard filled with notices. Johnson was right, of course. It was nothing more than childish anxiety over the afternoon’s appointment that prevented Sherlock from thinking. But, to his distress, identifying the anxiety did not make it go away. It was with a certain amount of relief that Sherlock looked out of the small window near the door and saw his mother’s old grey Renault pulling up outside.

He snatched up his bag and hurried out to the car, tossing the bag into the back seat before he climbed into the front seat next to Mummy. “Hello, darling,” she said absently. “Make sure to hang your wet things to dry when we get home. You don’t want them to get mouldy.”

“Will your solicitor still be there when we get home?” Sherlock asked. Mummy’s solicitor was called Mr. Fraser, and she talked about him often. Sherlock had never met him, and he had no desire to do so, especially not today.

“Of course not. I sent him back to his office when I left to fetch you. I’ll have to make another appointment with him.” If there was any reproach in Mummy’s voice, Sherlock did not care.

There was silence in the car for a few moments as Mummy navigated an especially tricky intersection. “Did you have a good time swimming?” she asked after a while.

Sherlock shrugged. “It was all right. I wanted to stay longer, but they had to get ready for a school sports tournament. Stupid.”

“Not every school has holidays at exactly the same time as yours,” Mummy said.

“Well, they ought to. It would be much more convenient.”

Mummy laughed. “You’d hate it. They’d end up shortening your hols to fit in with everyone else’s calendar. You do have awfully long hols, you know.”

Sherlock slouched down in his seat and folded his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t make a bit of difference if you’re just going to ruin them by making me go to the dentist. I don’t want to have teeth ripped out of my head. They’re perfectly good teeth.”

“Yes, but there are too many of them to fit in your jaw. We’ve got to take a couple of them out for the braces. Don’t you want nice straight teeth when you grow up?”

Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth. They weren’t quite crooked, but the dentist had decided that he was developing an overbite and wanted to push his front teeth further back. Sherlock had watched Mycroft suffer through two and a half years of braces, and was under no illusion that any part of this would be at all pleasant. “I don’t want braces,” he said, “and I certainly don’t want that dentist tearing up my mouth today.”

“You won’t feel a thing,” Mummy said. “Really, Sherlock, this is the modern era. He’ll give you Novocaine.”

“But how will he know when it works? I don’t want him to start pulling right away.”

Mummy smiled. “Don’t you worry. I worked this all out with Pansy from church. She’s a dentist. She said that, when she gives someone Novocaine, she waits a bit and then -- this is _very_ clever, Sherlock -- she gives their mouth a poke and asks if it hurts.”

“Ha ha.” It was bad enough that Mycroft could never remember that Sherlock was thirteen and therefore very nearly grown up. It was even less pleasant when Mummy treated him like a child as well.

Mummy ignored his sarcasm. “Pansy also told me that half of your problem is worrying.” She gave that word a disapproving emphasis. “So I’ve spoken with the dentist, and he’ll also give you some medicine for that. It’s all taken care of, darling. All you have to do is sit there and let the poor man do his job. Then you can come home and put your feet up, and you’ll have the whole holiday to recover. That’s not so bad, now, is it?”

There was precisely nothing about that plan that appealed to Sherlock in the slightest, but it was a grown-up plan, and one thing that Sherlock had learned very early in life was that grown-up plans were as unshakeable as the British Isles themselves. If Mummy decreed that he would start the half-term hols by being assaulted by a dentist, then that was what would happen.

They had arrived at home. Mummy parked the car, and they went inside. Sherlock made a show of hanging up his wet swimsuit and towel, and Mummy ignored him in favour of going into the kitchen to make lunch. She re-emerged a few minutes later with a bowl of tomato soup and a piece of toast spread with Marmite. Sherlock stirred the soup and nibbled at the edges of the toast, but couldn’t bring himself to eat any more than that.

Mummy watched him for ten seemingly endless minutes before she heaved another long-suffering sigh. “Fine. If you won’t eat it, I will. But you still have to clean your teeth before we leave for the dentist’s. Don’t forget.”

Sherlock watched her eat the soup and toast with vague disgust. “Mycroft said that you made him a banana milkshake when he had his braces put on.”

“I might have done. It was a long time ago.”

“Mycroft said.”

Mummy gazed at him coolly over the soup bowl. “Are you asking me to make you a banana milkshake? You hate bananas.”

That was true, and yet it did not stop Sherlock from wanting a banana milkshake anyway. There was no logic there that he could explain, so he stared at the table and shrugged.

“Please yourself,” Mummy said. “Go and clean your teeth before you forget.”

Sherlock got up and left the table without a word.

* * *

An hour later, he had managed to lose himself in a book about the First World War that he had taken from Daddy’s study at Christmas, telling himself that he would return it when, and if, Daddy came home again. He tried to imagine himself as a soldier, and then changed his mind and decided on a cavalry officer, kitted out in a sharply pressed uniform, ready to ride into battle. The thought of courage in the face of certain death appealed to him today, although he had not yet finished _Life of Samuel Johnson._

“Sherlock!” Mummy called. “Put your shoes on. It’s time to go."

Sherlock stuck an old birthday card into the book in lieu of a bookmark, rolled off of his bed, and stuffed his feet into his trainers. He dragged his feet as he came downstairs, put his coat on with exaggerated care, and made sure that all the buttons were done. When he could think of no more ways to dawdle, he went out to the car, where Mummy was waiting for him. After he had put his seatbelt on, Mummy took something out of her handbag and handed it to him. It was Mycroft’s Walkman, with headphones and a cassette of Bach’s organ chorales.

“Almost forgot,” Mummy said. “This was Pansy’s other suggestion. She said you’d be much better off if you couldn’t hear the dentist working in your head. She said that disturbs her patients sometimes.”

The explanation made sense, and Sherlock was always glad to have a chance to lose himself in Bach. Sherlock had managed to evade many of his religious obligations in recent years, and could not remember if he had ever met Pansy from church. But as he considered her suggestions, the treacherous thought wormed its way through his brain that Pansy might just be a dentist who cared about her patients and looked after them as doctors were meant to do. As the car headed toward its ultimate destination in Queen Anne Street, Sherlock huddled down in his seat and wished that Pansy could be his dentist.

* * *

At the dentist’s office, Sherlock scowled and stared at the floor while Mummy registered him with the receptionist. There were toys scattered around the waiting room meant for much smaller children, and the only magazines available were the sort filled with large, brightly coloured pictures of celebrities doing boring things. The door to the office proper opened, and a little girl skipped out, holding a balloon in one fist and carrying a brand-new toothbrush in the other. She had clearly just come from an exam in which the dentist had found that her teeth were in excellent shape, with not a single cavity. Sherlock had had plenty of those exams as a child, though he had never quite understood the point of the balloon and had always released it immediately upon exiting the building, content to watch it sail away into the sky.

“Sherlock Holmes?” the nurse asked. Mummy prodded Sherlock’s shoulder and followed him into the dentist’s office. Sherlock’s insides wobbled a bit as he sat down in the large padded chair. Instantly ashamed of his cowardice, he thrust out his lower lip and stared hard at the nurse, noticing that her bright red lipstick was smudged.

The dentist arrived a moment later, and Sherlock clamped his gaze upon him, not wanting the man to make a single move that he could not see. The dentist smiled at him, though not a friendly smile. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said. “How are you doing today?”

The question was so blindingly stupid that it just had to be a ploy to get Sherlock to open his mouth. Sherlock said nothing. He refused to meet the dentist’s eyes, but stared at his hands. There was a curious dent on his ring finger where a ring would go, but there was no ring there.

“Ahaha,” the dentist said. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you. Can you give me a little smile? I promise I won’t hurt you.”

This was a transparent lie, and Sherlock glared at the dentist. The dentist smiled again, and Sherlock saw the traces of something bright red on his teeth.

“I see you’ve brought your music,” the dentist went on. “That’s a good boy. You’ll grow up to be really clever one day.”

This was too much. Sherlock’s indignation overcame his resolve to keep his mouth shut. “I’m already clever,” he said. “I know that you like to kiss the nurse. Are you going to get a divorce?”

“Sherlock!” Mummy cried.

The dentist smiled a tight, patient little smile. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Mrs. Holmes,” he said through gritted teeth. “He’s just nervous, ahaha. I’ve heard worse, believe me.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Let’s just take care of that mouth of yours, shall we?”


	2. By The Means Appointed

**2\. By The Means Appointed**

* * *

The dentist tilted the chair back, and Sherlock gripped the armrests firmly, trying to anchor himself against the unpleasant sensation of being dropped. He heard the rustling of paper as the dentist consulted his notes.

“All right, Sherlock,” the dentist said. “You’re going to get both Novocaine and nitrous today -- do you know what nitrous is?”

Sherlock thought back to the pleasant days during the school hols a few years earlier, when Mycroft had been home from Harrow and had let Sherlock look through his chemistry textbook. “Nitrous oxide,” he said, unable to keep his voice from squeaking. “Laughing gas. N2O.”

“Very good. You _are_ clever, aren’t you, ahaha. It’s an extra anaesthetic that will stop you from being so anxious. We’ll put the mask on, and you’ll feel just fine. I’ll give you the Novocaine first so it can start working, and then we’ll get you all fixed up with the nitrous and your music. You’ll be just fine.”

Sherlock did not believe that for an instant, but he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing, because the dentist had picked up a large syringe. Sherlock tried to twist away, but the nurse held his head still with one hand and pried his mouth open with the other. “You’ll feel a few little pinches,” she said.

There were four of them, two on each side of his upper jaw, and, if he had been able to talk, Sherlock would have described them as “red-hot stabs with a very small poker” rather than “pinches.” But the dentist was efficient, at least, and they were over quickly. The nurse released Sherlock’s head, and he glared at the dentist. The roof of his mouth was already starting to feel tingly.

“Get your headphones ready,” the dentist said, reaching down behind the chair. Sherlock slipped the headset on and made sure the tape was cued in the Walkman. The dentist produced a grey mask, just big enough to fit over someone’s nose. 

“This is going to smell like a shower curtain, but that’s all right,” the dentist told him. “I’m going to put it on you, and then you can start your music and we’ll get going.”

Sherlock glanced around, desperately looking for Mummy. She was still in the room, and she nodded at him, but said nothing. The dentist strapped the mask over Sherlock’s nose, and the gas smelled thick and suffocating. Sherlock quickly pressed “play,” and then he was breathing the horrible sweet scent, and the first comforting notes of “ _Nun, komm’, der Heiden Heiland_ ” sounded in his head, and a chill washed through him, and then time seemed to slow down, and the world went wobbly.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t know how long he drifted through his drugged haze, and neither did he care. He was far away from the real world with all of its hurts and annoyances, flying through a place that was entirely made of music. The thundering bass of the organ supported him as he weaved in and out through intricate harmony that was at once pure mathematics and infinitely beautiful. If he stretched out his hands, he could catch the notes like drops in his palm, but his body was so perfectly relaxed and buoyed that he had no desire to expend that effort, especially when the notes rained down around him anyway. Far away, someone was doing something to his mouth, and sometimes the golden curtain of music would part just enough for him to be aware of pressure or pulling, but for the most part, he remained lost in the midst of perfect beauty and order.

And then, just when Sherlock was ready to surrender himself fully to his new surroundings, they faded away. The radiant light dimmed, the music became tinny, and his body grew heavy and full of unpleasant sensations. The grey mask was lifted away from his face, and cold, thin air burned into his lungs. Mummy was standing over him, and with a click, the last remnants of the music vanished, and Mummy removed the headphones.

“There you are,” the dentist was saying. “You did great. You just sit for a few minutes and bite down on that gauze while I talk to your mother.”

Sherlock moved his tongue experimentally and discovered that his mouth was indeed stuffed with wads of gauze. His face felt strange, as though it had swollen to twice its normal size, and he could taste blood. He did not dare to move his jaw, afraid that it would shatter into a million pieces if he did. He couldn’t tell whether anything hurt or not, and that uncertainty frightened him.

Someone helped him out of the chair, and he abandoned dignity altogether in favour of clinging to Mummy as she led him away. He was vaguely aware of being put into the car and riding through the city. They were going home. Home appealed to him. Home was familiar and comforting and he could sleep and Mummy would take care of him because he was hurt. That seemed like something precious and threatened, though the reason flickered only dimly in his memory.

“Don’ wan’ go . . . ‘row,” he mumbled, slurring the words through the gauze and the numbness.

“Don’t try to talk, darling,” Mummy said. “We’re going straight home, and I’ll make you a banana milkshake and give you some paracetamol, and then you can lie on the sofa and sleep it off.”

That sounded like an excellent plan. Sherlock nodded, and slipped into a warm doze.

* * *

Later, he was lying on the sofa, propped up with pillows and covered with a blanket. The television flickered in front of him. A woman was cooking something on the screen, talking about it in a chirpy voice. Mummy was also cooking. She was in the kitchen, and it was the rattling whir of the blender that had woken Sherlock from his stupor. Then the blender stopped, and Mummy was crouching at Sherlock’s side.

She slipped two pills into his mouth and then held a glass up to his lips. The liquid inside was thick and sweet and cold, and it smelled of bananas. The tiny fraction of Sherlock’s mind that was struggling to comprehend the world was puzzled that the drink could smell of bananas and taste good at the same time, but it was too much work to figure it out at the moment. Much better to lie back and enjoy it.

Mummy put another pair of pills on Sherlock’s tongue. He thought that these pills were smaller than the others, but his mouth was so numb that he could not be sure. 

“You should sleep a little bit,” Mummy said. “This will make it easier. It’s a special occasion, so you can have some.” She offered him another sip of milkshake.

“Wha’s i’?” Sherlock asked.

“Mummy’s Little Helper. It’ll send you right off to dreamland, so you can get better.” Mummy tucked the blanket more firmly around Sherlock’s body and patted his head as she left.

Sherlock managed a few more slurps of his banana milkshake. The woman on the cooking programme nattered on about sauces. Sherlock’s head felt fuzzy and entirely too heavy, and he didn’t want to be here, wounded and sore and alone on the sofa. He wanted to be back in the golden world that rained music and maybe if he put the milkshake down and closed his eyes, he could return there . . . 

* * *

With the assistance of Mummy’s Little Helper, Sherlock did manage to sleep quite soundly for a few hours. He roused only vaguely at the sound of the front door opening, and listened in a drowsy daze as Mycroft’s voice greeted Mummy.

“Mycroft, darling, welcome home!” Mummy replied. Then her voice grew colder. “Oh, why couldn’t you have taken a taxi from the station?”

“Because it’s expensive and because Father offered to drive me. Don’t worry, it’s just to drop me off.”

Sherlock tried to fight his way to full consciousness so he could go and see if it really was Daddy’s car outside. But his limbs refused to move, and then he heard the sound of the car pulling away. He slumped back into the pillows, too sleepy to feel much distress.

“I’m just having a sherry before supper,” Mummy said. “Sherlock’s sleeping on the sofa. Don’t bother him now. You can see him when he wakes up.”

Sherlock listened to the thump of a suitcase being carried up the stairs. He wanted to wake up immediately so that he could go and see Mycroft, but the pillows were soft, and the blanket was warm, and Mycroft had brought a suitcase, so he would be staying at least overnight, and Sherlock reluctantly let himself sink back into sleep.

* * *

When he woke up fully, both the Novocaine and the paracetamol had worn off, and his mouth throbbed with pain. Without the comforting haze of the drugs, the reality of what had been done to him hit hard, and he let out a deep moan, which was as close to a howl of rage as he could get without actually opening his wounded mouth. Fortunately, it was enough to attract Mummy, who hurried to his side.

“Oh, it’s all starting to wear off now, isn’t it?” she said. She glanced at her watch and smiled. “I think you can have a little bit more paracetamol now, and then you can thaw some peas for me. I bought them especially with you in mind. Let’s see how those gaps look.”

Mummy pulled the wads of blood-stained gauze from Sherlock’s mouth, leaving behind gaps that felt ticklish where his tongue touched them. She then helped Sherlock swallow more pills with the remains of the banana milkshake and handed him a package of frozen peas to arrange over his mouth.

“Let those thaw for a bit,” Mummy said. “I’m going to start peeling the potatoes now, and I’ll come back for the peas when they’ve done their job.” She collected the milkshake glass and left.

Sherlock leaned back against the pillows and stared at the television, his head swimming. The cooking programme was long gone, and the news was playing. It was far enough into the programme that the really interesting international news was past, and the broadcaster was just finishing up reporting the football scores in preparation for the local news.

“In London today, a tragic story,” the broadcaster intoned. “The death of a young boy at a school swimming gala.” The picture switched to a shot of a swimming pool, and Sherlock realized with a shock that it was the same pool where he had been swimming that morning. It felt like it had been years ago.

“Carl Powers was a promising young swimmer from Brighton who had arrived in London to participate in a regional swimming tournament,” said a different voice, presumably that of the reporter at the pool. The image on the screen changed to a school portrait of a good-looking little boy, only a year or two younger than Sherlock. The reporter went on to describe how Carl Powers had been competing in the 100-meter freestyle when he had suddenly had a seizure. Because of the churning water from the other swimmers, no one had noticed that Carl was in distress until the other boys had passed him. By that time, he had passed out, sunk below the surface of the water, and drowned. The news report finished with a quick shot of Carl’s abandoned changing cubicle before switching back to the news desk.

“A tragic tale of a promising young life cut short,” the broadcaster said. “I’m sure parents all over London will be hugging their children a little tighter tonight. And now, the stock markets.”

Sherlock frowned. There was something about that story that did not sit right with him. He thought about calling for Mummy to ask her about it, but he already knew what her answer would be. Of course it bothered him, she would say. A little boy had died in a place that Sherlock knew, the sort of thing that would upset anybody, and would Sherlock please not bother her with any more perfectly obvious questions.

Over the drone of the stock reports, Sherlock could hear the rattle of pans in the kitchen. Mummy made a brief appearance to remove the bag of peas, which were now thoroughly warm, and then returned to her cooking. A few minutes later, Mycroft came into the room. At the sight of his brother, Sherlock struggled to sit up, and even produced a lopsided smile. Mycroft twitched the corners of his mouth in response, ruffled Sherlock’s hair, and sat down in the armchair near the sofa.

“You ca’ dow’ fro’ Osf’rd,” Sherlock said.

“Just for the weekend,” Mycroft replied. “Mummy said that she was taking you to the dentist, and I thought it would be best if I were around, at least for a bit.”

“You saw Da’y.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Briefly. I asked him to meet my train and bring me here. That was all. I’ll see more of him after the term is finished.”

“He di’n’ co’ see ‘ee.”

Mycroft puzzled over this sentence a moment before working it out. “You wouldn’t have noticed if he had. Mummy said you were asleep.”

That had not been strictly true -- Sherlock had been just awake enough to know that Mycroft had come home, and he was sure he would have been able to appreciate Daddy’s presence, even if he hadn’t been able to open his eyes -- but Sherlock supposed that it was true enough from Mycroft’s perspective. Mummy had said that Sherlock was not to be disturbed, and that was as good as if he had actually been fully asleep.

Mycroft glanced at the television, where the news programme was coming to a conclusion. “Did anything interesting happen in the world today?” he asked.

“Wa’ a boy. D’own’d inna poo’ ‘n Lon’n t’day.”

“No, not like that,” Mycroft said. “Something interesting. You know. Solidarity. The Soviets leaving Afghanistan. Important things.”

“Oh. Don’ know. Slep’ t’ough tha’ bi’.”

“Pity.” Mycroft shrugged.

Mycroft changed the channel to one that was showing a documentary, and they sat together in silence for a while. Sherlock’s jaw ached, and every now and then, he made a noise. Sometimes, Mycroft looked over and gave him a pained smile. It didn’t make the ache in Sherlock’s jaw go away, but it did make him feel a little better.

He must have drifted back to sleep, because Mycroft had vanished. Sherlock heard the clanking of china and cutlery from the dining nook. “Mummy?” he called.

The clanking stopped. After a moment, Mycroft appeared, bearing a dish that steamed. “Mummy didn’t know how much you’d want to eat. We’re having steak with peas and mashed potatoes. These are mashed potatoes for you. I suppose I could cut up a bit of steak if you wanted.”

Sherlock shook his head. His stomach felt like a battleground between hunger and nausea, and he didn’t know whether or not any food he ate would stay down. Mashed potatoes might just make it, but Sherlock wasn’t sure that he could face steak. “’nk you,” he said.

Mycroft returned to the table without a word. Sherlock ate a few bites of mashed potatoes and settled back on the sofa, alone with the flickering television and his creeping feeling that something had gone terribly wrong today.


	3. In The Jingle Jangle Morning

**3\. In The Jingle Jangle Morning**

* * *

Sherlock woke the next morning in his bed, wearing only pants and a t-shirt. He wasn’t quite sure how he had come to be there, though he had a vague memory of Mycroft half-guiding and half-carrying him up the stairs. Of course, he also had an equally vague memory of being sucked into a churning whirlpool while Mycroft and Mummy danced a waltz. Thinking logically, as Mycroft always told him to do, it would seem that the former memory was more likely to be real than the latter one. However, it was undeniably true that Sherlock had two tender spaces in his upper jaw where teeth had been removed. They didn’t hurt any more, but they tickled when he explored them with his tongue.

He slid out of bed, put on slippers and a dressing gown, and followed the smell of food downstairs. Mycroft sat alone at the breakfast table, picking at the remains of sausage, egg, and toast, drinking coffee and reading a section of the newspaper. Mycroft looked up when Sherlock padded over to him.

“Awake at last, I see,” he said. “You were astonishingly sleepy yesterday. What did that dentist give you?”

“Novocaine,” Sherlock said. “And nitrous oxide.”

“Really? That’s all you had?”

“All I had from the dentist,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “And what else did you have? Do you remember?”

It took Sherlock a few moments, but the memory did return. “Mummy gave me paracetamol,” he said, “and . . . I think she gave me something else, too.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched his lips together. “Do you remember what that was?”

“I don’t know. I think she called it . . . Mummy’s Little Helper?”

Mycroft said nothing, and his eyes went very far away. “Well,” he said at last, “that explains a lot. You know you mustn’t take drugs, of course, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged, not knowing how to answer Mycroft. He had heard lectures about drugs, but they didn’t seem to apply if it was your doctor or your Mummy giving them to you. There was silence for a moment, and then Mycroft gave a tight little smile.

“What about some breakfast?” he asked. “You didn’t eat much yesterday. You must be absolutely ravenous. Shall I make you an omelette?”

Usually Sherlock ate cornflakes in the morning, but he didn’t like the idea of sharp flakes against the holes in his jaw. And it was a luxury to have someone to make him a cooked breakfast. “Yes,” he said. “With cheese.”

Mycroft got up and went into the kitchen, and Sherlock went to sit at the other side of the table so that he could still see his brother. He watched as Mycroft broke eggs into a bowl and beat them with salt, pepper, and a spoonful of water. “Where’s Mummy?” he asked.

“At church.” Mycroft dropped a pat of butter into a pan and set it over high heat. “I said I’d stay here and look after you.” He took a container of grated cheese from the refrigerator and set it on the worktop. Sherlock watched, fascinated, as Mycroft poured the eggs into the pan, swirled it, sprinkled cheese, and expertly shook the pan back and forth, tipping a perfectly formed omelette out onto a plate a few seconds later. He set the omelette in front of Sherlock and handed him a fork.

“Eat that, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

The omelette was tender and warm with just enough bite from the pepper. Sherlock chewed it carefully, watching Mycroft fill the kettle and prepare a mug. The house was soothingly quiet. Perhaps it might be all right to give voice to some of the thoughts that had been whirling around in Sherlock’s head. Mycroft could usually be relied upon to answer most of Sherlock’s questions, or at least not to laugh at them.

“I’m going to Harrow this autumn,” he ventured.

Mycroft frowned. “Of course you are. We’ve known it for years. Both of us were put down for it practically at birth.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I remember when Father came home from the hospital after seeing you for the first time. He told me that you were small and red and wrinkly, poured a glass of champagne for himself and sparkling water for me, and then went to his desk to announce you to the headmaster. Why bring it up now?”

“Did you like being at Harrow?” Sherlock asked.

“It served its purpose.” Mycroft shrugged. “The grounds are lovely, and I met lots of the right sort of people there. I was educated, and now I’m at Oxford. I would say that Harrow served me very well.”

That was not the question that Sherlock had asked, but he knew better than to push a point like that with Mycroft. “Will I like being at Harrow?” he asked.

Mycroft did not answer immediately. He set a cup of tea in front of Sherlock and regarded him intently for a while. “No,” he said. “You won’t. But there’s nothing you can do about that. You’re going. You may as well find something there to enjoy.”

Sherlock sipped his tea and contemplated Mycroft’s words. He wasn’t happy to hear them, but he wasn’t unhappy, either. Certainly he appreciated Mycroft’s honesty and rare bluntness. Knowing what to expect would make things a bit easier; or, at least, he hoped so. He poked at the holes in his mouth with his tongue again. “I’ll have my braces on when I go there.”

“You and half of the other boys in your year. At least.” Mycroft snorted a little laugh. “Don’t worry about that. The masters know how to deal with braces. They’re not that stupid, you know.”

Mycroft turned back to the newspaper while Sherlock finished his breakfast. It was strange to be alone in the house with Mycroft, whom Sherlock saw only rarely. It was stranger still to think that this serious young man with his waistcoat and endless store of patient answers could possibly be his brother. Sherlock could see very well that Mycroft was related to Mummy and Daddy, but he could not always manage to comprehend that Mycroft was also related to him.

Almost as soon as Sherlock started on that line of thought, he wished that he hadn’t. His stomach knotted itself up into a little ball, and he had to wrap his arms around his middle for a bit until the feeling went away and he was sure that the omelette that Mycroft had made would not reappear. As soon as he was able to think clearly again, Sherlock decided that he had to ask another question. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer, but the opportunity of being alone with Mycroft was too rare to let pass. And besides, you had to do important things, even if they scared you.

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

Mycroft had not yet looked up from the newspaper. That was all right. Maybe it would be easier this way. Sherlock took a deep breath. “Will Mummy and Daddy get divorced?”

Mycroft folded the paper down and blinked at Sherlock in surprise. “Divorced? Of course not. What gave you that idea?”

“Well, they don’t like each other. And Daddy moved to the flat. I hardly ever see him.”

“They won’t get divorced.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Henry Chapman from school’s parents got divorced.”

“Princess Margaret got divorced,” Mycroft replied sharply. “That doesn’t mean that our parents will get divorced.”

Mycroft flipped the newspaper back up with a decisive little snap. Sherlock blinked in surprise, and then turned to stare into the dregs of his tea while he contemplated everything that Mycroft had told him. To his surprise, he realized that that included not just everything that Mycroft had said, but also quite a bit that Mycroft had not said. Or, rather, that he had not said with words. Sherlock wanted to think more about what Mycroft had not said out loud, but he found that it made his stomach feel odd in exactly the same way that poking the holes in his mouth with his tongue made it feel odd. He would think about them later, he decided. After his mouth healed.

* * *

Mummy returned home around midday, full of cheerful greetings for her sons. She kissed Mycroft on both cheeks and held Sherlock’s mouth open so that she could peer inside. “Well, that looks better,” she said. “And you’re looking more like yourself today. You see, it wasn’t so bad. How long have you been awake? Did you have any breakfast?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I woke up after you’d left. Mycroft made me an omelette.”

“That’s good. I assume that neither of you will die of hunger if I take a bit before I make lunch? Fish, I think, that’ll be quick. Mycroft, will you be staying to supper?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, glanced at Sherlock, and then shut it again. “I suppose I could. But I really must be back at Oxford by ten tonight.” He caught Sherlock’s disappointed expression and sighed. “Really, I must go back. This isn’t a holiday, it’s just a weekend. I came down to help take care of you, and you’re fine now.”

Mummy nodded. “I’ll take you to Paddington after supper, then. There will be plenty of trains. I’m going to put my feet up for a bit before I make lunch. Go entertain yourselves until then.”

She went upstairs. Mycroft turned to Sherlock. Sherlock aimed his best glare at Mycroft, but Mycroft only laughed at him. “Look at you, all wobbly in the chin. Come on. Why don’t we go into the garden and you can show me where all the best creepy-crawlies live.”

* * *

After lunch, Mummy retired to her desk to write some letters. Sherlock and Mycroft claimed the sitting room. Mycroft stretched out on the sofa with a book about Churchill, and Sherlock sprawled on the floor with the newspaper. He found the crossword quickly and amused himself for a while solving it with only a little help from Mycroft. He was proud that the only words with which he had needed help were obscure words that he had not yet learned, and it was oddly comforting to know that Mycroft was in the same room, available for the asking.

When he had finished the crossword, Sherlock pawed through the rest of the newspaper. Most of the stories were long and boring, analyses of the minutiae of the latest financial scandals or dramas from Downing Street. But there was a section that contained actual news stories, and Sherlock paged through it. On Page Four, he found a brief article headlined “Drowning Death Of Sussex Schoolboy.” It was the same death as the one he had seen on the television last night; he had remembered it correctly, then.

The article said little more than the television programme had said. Sherlock learned that Carl Powers’s parents were named Ian and Moira Powers and that Carl had an older sister named Susan, and also that Carl was considered one of the top swimmers in his age group in Sussex. At the time of his death, his parents and coaches had been considering sending him to train for national competition.

Sherlock sat up and frowned. There was something about this story that nagged at his brain, a hole in it that cried out to be examined. Sherlock recalled his own swimming lessons, and in particular recalled the teacher telling the children that, if they felt sick, they should paddle to the shallow end of the pool, or at least the edge, and ask an adult for help. He wondered why Carl had not done that. Another glance at the story reminded him that Carl had had a seizure. Sherlock had never had a seizure, and he had never known anyone who had, but the word itself was instructive. Perhaps Carl had been seized so quickly that he had had no time to react, just as when Sherlock had been little and Daddy had seized his arm to keep him from running into a busy street.

“Mycroft?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why do people have seizures?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock. “Usually from epilepsy, I think. Why?”

Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s question in favour of another one of his own. “What’s epilepsy like?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft turned back to his book. “I think Mummy’s got a family health reference in the hall bookshelf. Go look it up.”

Sherlock left the newspapers and found the tome exactly where Mycroft had said it would be. He sat down on the floor and opened it to the _E_ section. After paging past _Earwax_ , _Elephantiasis_ , and _Emphysema_ , and getting distracted by _Encephalitis_ , he found _Epilepsy_ and began to read.

He read about different types of seizures, about how to control them, and about what to do if he were ever to see someone having a seizure. He learned about other cultures that had viewed epileptics as either possessed or holy, about Julius Caesar, Joan of Arc, and Prince John. And then he read about auras, and how many people had a few moments’ warning before a seizure struck. Sherlock read the entire article about epilepsy twice and then flipped to the _S_ section to read more about seizures in general.

It turned out that epilepsy was not the only cause of seizures. They could be caused by anything from trauma to fevers to cancer to neurological disorders whose names Sherlock had to sound out. Seizures appeared to be primarily a symptom rather than a separate disease, and the book went to great lengths to reassure worried parents that seizures were dramatic, but mostly non-fatal, and certainly something to be investigated. It seemed highly unlikely that an eleven-year-old boy would simply have a seizure and drown just like that, with no prior warning. Or else, Sherlock considered, Ian and Moira Powers had been highly irresponsible parents who had ignored any earlier symptoms. That was certainly not outside the realm of possibility.

Sherlock thought about the problem for a while longer and then decided that it could wait. Mycroft was home, and Sherlock did not want to waste a minute more of that time than absolutely necessary. He could always return to the health reference later. He replaced it on the bookshelf and returned to the sitting room, to his newspaper and his brother.


	4. The Mouths Of Babes

**4\. The Mouths Of Babes**

* * *

Supper that evening was spaghetti bolognese, soft food that Sherlock could cut up and eat in small bites without having to gnaw at it unattractively at the table. Mummy and Mycroft had glasses of red wine, with milk for Sherlock. “For strong bones and teeth, darling,” Mummy had said, ignoring Sherlock’s withering glare. He wasn’t interested in the wine, which smelled sour and unpleasant, but he could at least have had grape juice.

Mummy steered the conversation at the table, interrogating Mycroft in great detail about his daily activities at Oxford, about his classes and his friends and his amusements. Mycroft answered in fond, indulgent tones, and Mummy seemed pleased with what she heard. But Sherlock watched as Mycroft avoided making eye contact with Mummy when talking about particular topics. He had done the same thing at breakfast with Sherlock that morning, and Sherlock realized that Mycroft was once again deliberately not talking about those topics. Sherlock camouflaged his gaze behind his milk glass and decided that he would soon be making another foray into Mummy’s family health reference.

After they had eaten, Mummy sent Mycroft upstairs to pack while she did the washing up. Sherlock followed Mycroft and sat on his bed as Mycroft stuffed his clothes and overnight supplies into his suitcase.

“Will you come home again soon?” he asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “At the end of the term, I suppose. For a little while.”

“Could I go up to Oxford with you? Just for a few days, just for the hols?”

“No.” Mycroft chuckled a little. “There’s nothing for a kid to do there. I’ve got lectures. You’d be bored. Don’t worry, you’ll get to go to university in your own time.”

“I wish I could go now,” Sherlock said. “Just skip Harrow and go directly to uni.”

“Well, you can’t.” Mycroft snapped the suitcase shut. “That’s not how the world works. Harrow will help you get into a good university. Just keep your mind on that.”

He gave Sherlock a quick, angular embrace. As soon as he was released, Sherlock fled to his room and threw himself down on his bed. He listened as Mycroft went downstairs, and heard the sounds of the front door opening and closing, and then the car starting and driving away, taking Mycroft to Paddington Station.

* * *

Because it was the hols, Sherlock slept later than usual on Monday morning. By the time he had woken up, washed, and dressed, Mummy had finished her breakfast and was chattering on the telephone to one of her friends. “Oh, I _know_ . . . It’s just terrible, he’s _amazingly_ irresponsible about these things . . . If it doesn’t arrive in the post today, I _will_ give him a piece of my mind . . . Oh, I _know_.” She spared a brief glance for Sherlock as he went to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of cornflakes.

He managed to eat the cornflakes without incident as he contemplated what to do with the day. Mummy would probably suggest going out to play with Jamie Simpson from next door. She had assumed for years that Sherlock and Jamie were friends simply because they lived in the same street, but Sherlock considered Jamie to be a menace whose greatest pleasures in life appeared to be shoplifting and harassing Sherlock. However, the idea of going to the shops on the main road without Jamie did appeal to Sherlock. He could watch adults going about their business and stop in at the library if he got tired.

He put his bowl in the sink and went back to Mummy’s study, where he stood in the doorway until she hung up the telephone and noticed him. “Yes, darling?” she said.

“May I have some pocket money? I want to go to the main road.”

Mummy sighed. “Do you need much? Only your father’s cheque hasn’t arrived yet. Honestly, does he _want_ me to have to go out and become a shop girl?”

“Just a few pounds. For a magazine or an ice cream.”

Mummy pinched her mouth together into a thin line. For a moment, Sherlock thought that she would refuse, but then she glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “Bring me my bag.”

Sherlock fetched the bag from the hall table. Mummy rooted around inside it and came up with a crumpled note. “Here. Go out and have a nice long walk. Get a sandwich if you’re hungry. Don’t forget your keys.” She turned away and reached for the phone again.

Sherlock put the money in a pocket in his trousers, fetched his keys from the rack, shrugged into his coat, and left the house.

* * *

The main road was populated mostly by young mothers wheeling babies or dragging small children on errands. Sherlock amused himself for a while by following them into shops and pretending to look at the goods on offer while secretly sneaking glances and eavesdropping on the women’s conversations. It was astonishing how much he could learn about them, just from listening to what they said and how, and by noticing how they were dressed and what sort of things they bought. Sometimes the toddlers would stare at him, and he stared back until they went and clung to their mothers.

Eventually, Sherlock made his way to a small corner shop. It was one of his favourites on the main road. Mycroft had taken him there ever since he was old enough to walk, at first to buy sweets, and later coffee for himself and fizzy drinks for Sherlock. Mr. Patel, the owner, smiled when Sherlock came in. Sherlock managed a small smile in return, but headed straight to the newspaper rack. One paper had a small teaser headline about the drowning, one had a short article below the fold, and the _Mirror_ had a large photograph and a headline that screamed TRAGIC CARL DIED. Sherlock picked up all three papers and bought them with the pocket money that Mummy had given him.

The local library was not far away, and Sherlock took the newspapers there to read them in relative peace and quiet. The librarians let him sit at a table in the adult room, and he pored over the stories. One story opened with a rather maudlin description of the meagre contents of the locker that Carl Powers had used. “His Parents’ Final Mementoes,” read the headline. The list of items was short, consisting mostly of clothing, a watch, a novel, and a Walkman with a tape inside of a band that Sherlock did not know.

Another story, even more sentimental than the first, featured a photograph of Carl Powers. The photograph showed an unremarkable little boy with dark, spiky hair sitting in his bedroom showing off his swimming awards. Sherlock’s eye was drawn to Carl’s shoes. They were high-topped trainers, popular and stylish and expensive. A few months earlier, while out shopping for new clothes with Mummy, Sherlock had seen a pair in the shoe shop, and had been instantly taken with them. He had begged Mummy to buy them for him, but she had refused. They were hideous, she had said, and it was far too much money to spend just so he could grow out of them before the year was out. Sherlock allowed himself a small pang of jealousy that Moira Powers had bought those shoes for her son.

As he contemplated the unfairness of mothers, a thought struck him, and he returned to the first news story. The list of items in Carl’s locker was detailed, clearly intended to wring the maximum sympathy out of the young-parent segment of its readership. Every item of clothing was listed, down to pants and socks, but there was no mention of the shoes. Sherlock knew what those shoes cost, and he could not imagine that the Powers family could have afforded a second pair of trainers for Carl. He had to have worn them to the tournament. But what had become of them?

Someone must have taken them, he decided. He could easily imagine a schoolmate coveting the trainers for himself. But the paramedics had been the ones to collect Carl’s things, and Sherlock had watched enough medical dramas on television that he didn’t think that the adults would have allowed a boy in a swimsuit anywhere near Carl’s locker. Whoever had taken the trainers had also left the watch and the Walkman behind. The thief had clearly wanted nothing but the trainers, and had been fast enough to get them before the paramedics did. Perhaps the thief had wanted to hide the trainers from the paramedics.

At that thought, Sherlock sat bolt upright in his chair. It all made sense. From what he had read in Mummy’s family health reference, Carl’s seizure had been too sudden and too severe to be normal in an eleven-year-old champion athlete, and there was no mention of epilepsy medication in his locker. And someone had gone to the trouble of stealing Carl’s trainers even before the paramedics had got him into an ambulance. What if the thief had wanted to hide the trainers because they were evidence? What if Carl Powers had been murdered?

The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he became convinced that he had to be right. Carl’s death couldn’t have been natural, and someone had had something to hide. It made too much sense to be wrong. Although Sherlock knew that he ought to be frightened at the idea of a child being murdered in a pool where he himself had been swimming only a few hours previously, he was excited. This was far more interesting than simply walking around or going to the common to chase squirrels. If it were in fact murder, the next logical step would be to inform the police.

Sherlock chewed his lip as he considered how best to do that. The local police station was not far from the library, and he could walk there, report the murder, and be done in time for lunch. But he knew the constables who worked there, and none of them were especially keen; even Jamie Simpson had managed to evade them carrying an armload of stolen comic books from the corner shop. The murder of a child deserved no less than Scotland Yard. Lunch would simply have to wait.

Sherlock tore out the relevant pages from the newspapers, stuffed them in his coat pocket, and took the rest of the papers to the bin. Then he went to the reference section and found the London directories. He looked up the address of Scotland Yard and learned that he could get there by Tube. The day was already looking much brighter as he trotted out of the library and hurried down the street to the Tube station.

* * *

When he got off the Tube at St. James Park, he took the nearest Way Out and found himself on Petty France. He went the wrong way at first, but quickly realized his mistake, doubled back, and found Broadway, which he followed around the corner, past cafés and banks, to the large steel-and-glass office building with a sign in front that said _New Scotland Yard_. Near the sign was a Visitors’ Entrance. Sherlock took a deep breath and went inside.

The lobby was impressively large and bright, and adults strode around purposefully. Sherlock was so entranced by the activity that at first he did not notice when someone spoke to him.

“Hello? Kid? Can I help you?”

He snapped out of his daze and looked around to see a young woman sitting at a reception desk. “You called me?”

“Yes. Can I help you find something?”

Sherlock nodded. “I want to see a detective.”

“Any particular detective?” the woman asked. “Looking for a particular division, maybe?”

“One of the detectives who investigates murder.”

The young woman raised her eyebrows at him, but made no further comment. “Mmm. All right. Sit down there and I’ll call someone for you.”

Sherlock sat down on the hard wooden bench that she indicated. He watched as she picked up the telephone and spoke quietly to someone on the other end. He couldn’t hear what she said, but a few minutes later, the lift doors at the far end of the lobby opened. Two men in cheap suits emerged and strode over to Sherlock. The older of the two men smiled at him.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Potter and this is Detective Sergeant Evans. Are you the kid who wanted to speak to homicide detectives?”

Sherlock stood up. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I want to report a murder.”

DS Potter nodded. “Right. Come with us, then. We’ll get you a cup of tea, and you can tell us all about it.”

Sherlock followed the detectives into the lift and from there into a small office equipped with a sofa, two chairs, and a low table. It reminded Sherlock of the dentist’s waiting room, and he sat down gingerly in one corner of the sofa. DS Potter smiled at him.

“There’s no need to be nervous, Sherlock. You just relax. Evans’ll get you some tea, and then I want you to start from the beginning. Take your time.”

DS Evans handed Sherlock a foam cup of tea and a dish of sugar packets. Sherlock took two, poured them into the tea and sipped at it. After DS Evans sat down, Sherlock pulled the newspaper pages out of his coat pocket and spread them on the table. “It’s about Carl Powers,” he said.

DS Potter frowned. “Who?”

“Carl Powers. He was a kid, a swimmer. He came up from Sussex the other day for a swim tournament. They closed down the free swim at the pool early to get ready for it.”

“Were you there?” DS Evans asked.

“I was at the pool for the free swim,” Sherlock explained, “but not the tournament. I had to go to the dentist.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Carl Powers died at the tournament. He had a -- a seizure, or a fit, and he was dead when they pulled him out of the water. It was on the news, and it’s in the papers. I suppose no one’s really investigating, because they all think it’s just epilepsy or something, but it wasn’t. Carl Powers was murdered, I’m sure of it. Will you find who did it?”

The detectives exchanged worried glances. “You didn’t see him die?” DS Potter asked.

“No. I already told you. I was at the dentist.” Sherlock pulled back his lip to show the gaps in his teeth.

“Did anyone tell you that something was wrong? Did you overhear something?”

“No.”

DS Evans sighed. “Then why do you think it was murder?”

“Because of his shoes.”

“His shoes?”

Sherlock pointed at the newspaper pages. “Really nice trainers. They went missing from his locker when he died. Look, you can see them in the picture, but they’re not listed in that article. Someone took the shoes because they were a clue, and they didn’t want anyone to find out about the murder.”

Neither of the detectives was smiling now. But they made no move to start investigating. Instead, they both looked weary and exasperated. Sherlock was intimately familiar with the expression, having seen it on the faces of his parents and his teachers many times before. “You don’t believe me,” he said.

DS Potter put on what he clearly believed was a conciliatory face. “Look, Sherlock, I know that you want to do the right thing. But murder, well, that’s a pretty serious charge. There’s a world of difference between theft and murder.”

“I know that,” Sherlock said, fighting to keep his temper. “I’m not stupid.”

“No one said you were. It’s just . . . well, you’ve got no proof of murder.”

“I do!” Sherlock said. “The trainers. I told you.”

“Someone nicked his shoes,” DS Potter said. “I understand that. Lockers like that aren’t nearly as secure as people want to think. But that’s theft. It isn’t murder.” He regarded Sherlock for a moment. “Listen, maybe there’s something else you want to talk about. Is everything all right at home?”

“It’s fine!” Sherlock cried. “Everything’s just fine! Why won’t you listen to me?”

There was a knock on the door, and a balding man in a suit poked his head into the room. “Is everything all right in here?”

DS Potter stood up. “Everything’s under control, guv. Got a kid here who’s just looking for a bit of attention. Evans and I’ll take him home.”

DS Evans nudged Sherlock to his feet. “Of course I’m looking for attention!” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve got something important to say! Why won’t you listen?”

“Come on, kid,” DS Potter said. “We’ll drive you home, make sure you get there safely.”


	5. All Hearts Are Broken

**5\. All Hearts Are Broken**

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back of DS Potter’s car and fumed as he was driven home. It wasn’t a panda car, and if it had lights, DS Potter hadn’t turned them on, so at least it wouldn’t look like it was the police who were bringing him home. Sherlock supposed he ought to be thankful for small mercies, but he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but angry at having been ignominiously dismissed for no reason that he could see other than that he was only thirteen and too young to be taken seriously. He had thought that the police would be happy to have a tip towards solving a crime they hadn’t even spotted, but clearly, he had been wrong. Sherlock scowled into the rear-view mirror at the detectives, trying to let them know just what idiots they were without having to speak to them.

DS Potter ignored him, and DS Evans only laughed. Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Evans to stop laughing at him, but the words died in his throat as the car pulled onto his street and he caught sight of his house. There were two cars there, where there had been only one when Sherlock had left the house in the morning. Mummy’s grey Renault stood where it had been before, but there was another larger car parked next to it. For one glorious moment, Sherlock thought that it might be Daddy’s Volvo, but as the police car drew closer, he saw that it was not. It was a shiny black BMW sedan. Sherlock had not seen it before, but a horrible suspicion floated through his mind.

“Will you let me out here?” he asked. “That’s my house across the street. I won’t get run over just crossing the street.”

DS Potter shook his head as he parked the car. “Sorry, kid. I said I’d see you home, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll take you to the door and make sure someone’s there.”

“There are two cars in the drive,” Sherlock said, but the detectives got out of the car anyway and walked with him to the door, one on each side. DS Potter rang the doorbell even as Sherlock fumbled in his pocket for his keys. There was a moment of stillness when almost nothing moved. But Sherlock looked up and saw that the curtains in his parents’ -- in _Mummy’s_ bedroom window twitched.

After a long moment, Mummy opened the door, wearing her dressing gown, her slippers, and a puzzled expression. “What on earth . . ?” she asked.

DS Potter flashed his warrant card. “Mrs. Holmes? I’m DS Potter and this is DS Evans. We’re just escorting Sherlock home, and we want to make sure he gets inside safely.”

“The police?” Mummy asked. “What -- is Sherlock in some sort of trouble?”

“No, ma’am. He was at Scotland Yard, a long way from here, and we wanted to make sure he got home.”

“Scotland Yard? Sherlock, you said you were going to the shops on the main road!”

“I did go,” Sherlock mumbled. “I went to Scotland Yard after.”

“He’s a keen lad, your son,” DS Evans told Mummy. “Quite a handful, I’d imagine. Just had a bit of an adventure, no harm done.”

Mummy smiled at the detectives. “I see. Well, thank you for bringing him back. I’ll be sure to have a word with him. Come inside, Sherlock.”

Her smile lasted just until the door shut behind Sherlock and they could both hear the detectives’ footsteps retreating. Then she turned to him, and the smile faded into a look of annoyance. “Sherlock Holmes, what have you been doing?” she demanded.

Mummy smelled strange, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “You’ve got a visitor,” he said. “Who is it?”

“That’s none of your concern. Answer my question. What have you been doing? Why were you at Scotland Yard?”

Sherlock almost told Mummy about Carl Powers, but just as he was about to speak, something entirely different came from his mouth instead. “Maybe that’s none of _your_ concern.”

Mummy went completely white and recoiled as if Sherlock had slapped her. “Go to your room,” she said. “Shut the door and wait there until I come for you.”

Sherlock obeyed, though he made sure to stomp his feet on the stairs so that whoever was in the house with him and Mummy would know that they were not welcome at all. When he reached his room, he slammed the door and flung himself down onto his bed. His stomach ached, and he curled up into a ball around it. He heard Mummy coming up the stairs and then her voice, muffled and indistinct. There was a second voice as well, deep, masculine, and unfamiliar. Sherlock could not make out what they were saying to each other, and he did not want to know. After a few minutes, he heard the heavy tread of a man going downstairs. The front door opened and shut, and then a car started.

Long minutes passed. Sherlock poked at the gaps in his teeth with his tongue and swallowed back tears. His stomach growled, but he could not imagine putting food in his mouth, certain that he would vomit if he did so. He wished that he had been allowed to accompany Mycroft back to Oxford.

Mummy knocked once on his door for warning, and then entered his room. She was once again perfectly dressed and coiffed, and the strange, sharp smell that had hung over her was now overlaid with her familiar Diorissimo scent. Sherlock sat up straight to face her.

“Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?” she asked, her voice weary. “You are going to drive me completely mad.”

“You weren’t meant to know,” Sherlock said miserably. “I don’t have to be at school, and you said I should go out for a long time. Past lunch, because you said to get a sandwich. I didn’t think you’d notice if I went into the city.”

“Well, you did go,” Mummy replied. “And you had to be brought back by the police, of all things. Can you imagine how ghastly it was to open the door and see that? Anyone would have thought that you were a thief.”

“I am not a thief. I was . . . helping the police with their enquiries.” It was a phrase that Sherlock had read in a novel once, and he liked its sophisticated sound.

Mummy simply laughed at it. “How could you possibly be helping the police with anything?” she asked. “You’ve spent the weekend sleeping and being secretive with Mycroft. You have nothing to say to the police.”

“Maybe I do. You don’t know anything about it. You’re too busy having meetings with your solicitor.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you will not speak to me that way!” Mummy’s eyes flashed. 

“That was Mr. Fraser who left, wasn’t it?” Part of Sherlock was horrified that he had even asked the question, but a larger part of him demanded the truth, whatever the consequences might be.

Mummy drew back, remote and icy cold. “You will have to be punished,” she declared. “And you can be grateful that your father isn’t here to do it.”

“Then why don’t you let me go live with him? I could still get to school from his flat. I could take the Tube.”

“You silly boy,” Mummy said. “Do you really think your father has room for you in that flat of his? Or that he has the time to deal with you? Especially after what you said to him.”

At that last remark, Sherlock drew his knees up and curled back into a ball, defeated.

Mummy sighed. “Clearly, I can’t trust you,” she said. “I can’t trust you not to wander off and find trouble. So I won’t let you do that. You’re to remain inside the house for the rest of the day. Tomorrow morning, you may come to me, and we will negotiate exactly how far you may go. If you break the day’s boundaries, you will go straight to your room and remain there until I release you. We will do this every day until the holidays are over.”

“But . . . that’s an entire week!”

“Well,” Mummy said with a shrug, “perhaps you ought to have considered that before you went haring off to Scotland Yard.” She turned around and left, shutting the door behind her.

Sherlock swallowed hard and did not cry. When he thought he could trust his legs, he got up and went to the foot of the bed and pulled out a large wooden box from beneath the bed. He opened the box and rummaged through small toy cars, bits of model railroad track, plastic Smurfs and a few Action Men, until he found the Driver. The Driver was an old stuffed panda bear, worn and battered from having been thumped, poked, squashed, dragged through mud and grass, dribbled on, coughed on, sat on, fought over, and otherwise loved since the day Sherlock’s grandmother had laid it in the cot with her newborn grandson.

Sherlock pushed the old toy box back under his bed and went to lie down again. He clutched the Driver tightly against his chest and wished that he had not woken up this morning.

* * *

Eventually, something gave way, and the churning upset and tension drained out of Sherlock, leaving him limp and empty, but not unpleasantly so. Instead of anger and humiliation, he had numbness, a Novocaine-like daze that made it possible for him to contemplate the rest of the holiday and think of things that he might want to do. There were experiments in Mycroft’s old chemistry textbook that Sherlock could attempt, and, if they succeeded, he might even be able to vary them. There were all sorts of plants and animals to investigate in the garden, and perhaps on the common if Mummy allowed him to go.

Sherlock slid off of the bed and stumbled over to his desk. He set the Driver on one side of the desk and took out a piece of paper.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_It was good of you to come down from Oxford to see me this weekend. My mouth is feeling much better. Mummy is cross with me because I went to Scotland Yard. No one believes me when I tell them things because no one ever believes kids. How do people become detectives?_

_Your brother,_

_Sherlock_

Having written this, Sherlock crept out of his room, intending to go downstairs and ask Mummy for a stamp for the letter. When he had got halfway down, he heard Mummy’s voice, speaking sharply. From the gaps in the conversation, he knew that she was on the telephone.

“Yes . . . yes, of course,” she was saying. “Yes, he’s fine, just a bit OT and E from all that running around . . . Listen, you really _must_ do something about this . . . no, don’t you _dare_ say that . . . he’s _your_ son, too, you won’t get away with it so easily, my darling husband . . .” 

Sherlock turned around without a word and went back to his room. He could ask Mummy for a stamp later. He picked up the Driver and sat down at his desk again. His room seemed small and suffocating, as if the weight of the entire house was concentrated in this one place. The only way out led through the dreaded doors of Harrow, which had swallowed Mycroft and would swallow Sherlock soon enough. Another question came to him, and he was glad that he had not yet sealed the letter. He picked up his pen and added another line.

_P.S. Do you think it might be better if Mummy and Daddy did get divorced?_

Swiftly, Sherlock folded the letter and slid it into an envelope before he could lose his nerve and cross out the final line. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Mycroft at Oxford. The stamp could wait until after supper. He took the Driver and lay down on his bed again. Though he had long ago outgrown having an afternoon nap, he did not want to be awake at the moment. He clutched the Driver tightly and shut his eyes, hoping that he might find a welcoming dream.

* * *

Sherlock did not go back to that pool to swim again. Mummy refused to allow him to go into the city for the rest of the holiday. After she allowed him to leave the confines of the garden, he went to swim at a pool in a local leisure centre and discovered that he preferred the facilities there.

He kept the newspaper articles about Carl Powers, preserved carefully in a small photograph album. Someone had to remember him, after all. Someone had to keep his case open, even if it had never been an official police case. Every so often, usually after a visit to the orthodontist, when his mouth was still hurting from having had his braces tightened, Sherlock would read the articles again, trying to fathom why someone would want Carl Powers dead. Had another swimmer, or the parent of another swimmer, been jealous of Carl’s success? Or had someone simply wanted his trainers?

With every year that passed, the probability that Sherlock would find answers to his questions declined. And, very soon, he had new questions to occupy his mind, and, later, actual cases. But he still kept his photograph album with the newspaper articles just in case something might turn up.

* * *

When something did turn up, twenty-one years later, Sherlock missed it at first. It was understandable, of course; being very nearly blown up, as John had described it, could count as a distraction even to the sharpest of minds. Sherlock had grown up, and his taste in shoes had become more sophisticated, running to sleek black oxfords rather than garishly decorated high-topped trainers. But then, in the lab at Barts, John had misidentified the shoes they had found in the basement flat as retro, and Sherlock had had to correct him. The trainers were originals, from Sussex, with traces of a child’s name still visible on the inside . . .

The memory hit Sherlock with enough force to render him speechless for a long moment. The trainers, the ferocious argument with Mummy in the shoe shop that had resulted in the purchase of a simpler pair of Reeboks and Sherlock spending the rest of the shopping trip fuming in stony silence. A school holiday ruined by a traumatic visit to the dentist. 

“Carl Powers . . .” he breathed. The report on the news, dimly remembered through a drugged haze, learning that he could know things about people he’d never met, simply by observing details.

“Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John.” Yellowing newsprint in a photograph album.

“What is it?”

“It’s where I began.” He’d been right all along. Briefly, he wondered what had become of DS Potter and DS Evans. Perhaps, when this business with the bomber was settled, he could ask Lestrade.

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was staring at him, frowning. It wasn’t an angry frown, though; it was puzzled, the look that John habitually wore when confronted with something new and interesting, something about which he wanted to know more. John wanted to know about Carl Powers, Sherlock realised. He would listen to what Sherlock had to say. Sherlock ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled.

“We’ve got to go home, John. I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Great. I’m all ears.”

Sherlock stuffed the shoes back into their evidence bag, shrugged into his coat, and strode out of the lab, tingling with the anticipation of finally being able to solve the problem of Carl Powers.

* * *

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those who have read and enjoyed this story! Sherlock is in for an unhappy adolescence, I fear.
> 
> This story came primarily from one of the quibbles I had with the way the Carl Powers story was handled. Most of the other stories in that episode had some form of illustration, but the tale of Sherlock and his first crime was told, rather than shown, in a blurry, generic, riding-around-in-a-cab scene. And it’s one of the more interesting stories, because it involves Sherlock so directly. I would have loved to see some kind of illustration. But, alas, it was not to be, so I had to write it myself. I’m grateful for all the kind words people have said about it.


End file.
